The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of the bedsheets as Pula shifted slightly, her body still trembling from exhaustion and the weight of what she had done. Her cyan hair spilled across the pillow, her orange eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, dazed and hollow. The echo of her brother’s voice still lingered in her head, his delusions of Susie, his hands, his cruelty—all of it seared into her mind. Even though she had stopped him, even though his blood no longer stained her hands, she could not bring herself to feel free. She had taken her brother’s life, the person she once admired most, and the gravity of that act pressed down on her chest like a stone.

The door creaked open softly, and Used stepped inside, their footsteps cautious, hesitant. They had heard what happened—everyone had—but seeing Pula like this was different from the whispers outside. She looked so small against the bedding, her coat folded neatly by the chair, her skin pale from both physical strain and the memories carved into her. Used lingered by the doorway for a moment, unsure if their presence would be welcome, before slowly approaching her bedside. Their voice, usually casual and steady, trembled when they finally spoke. “Pula… can you hear me?”

Her eyes shifted, slowly, to meet theirs. No words came, her throat too dry, too burdened by everything she could not say. But her trembling fingers curled slightly on the blanket, a faint sign that she wasn’t lost completely, that she was still fighting to hold onto herself. Used sat down carefully, keeping their distance but close enough so she would not feel alone. “You don’t have to talk,” they murmured softly, almost like a promise. “I just wanted you to know… you’re not by yourself anymore.” The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was fragile, but for the first time in days, Pula didn’t feel completely crushed beneath it.